


More Than Just Ink on a Napkin

by BeaArthurPendragon



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: BFFs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-12
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-09-16 17:23:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16958328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeaArthurPendragon/pseuds/BeaArthurPendragon
Summary: “I daresay I detect an eel, Foggy. I think she means business,” Matt says wryly as Karen pours their rounds, and she grins and tosses her hair over her shoulder.“I do,” she says lightly, pushing their glasses across the table. “Take a pew, boys.”“Uh oh,” Matt laughs as they sit.“You, sir, have some explaining to do.”(Foggy and Karen hug it out with Matt post-DDS3. Mild spoilers.)





	More Than Just Ink on a Napkin

**Author's Note:**

> Adventures in fluff: A little slapdash somethin' somethin' because I'm fighting a bad cold and feel crummy and I'm just not ready to let go of these delicious little muffins.

They decamp to Josie’s after Father Lantom’s wake—Matt, Foggy, and Karen.

(Marci pleads court in the morning, which is true but not the reason. The reason is the look of relief on Foggy’s face when she begs off, the look she expected but dreaded all the same. It’s for the best, really: She doesn’t want to begrudge Matt Murdock his resurrection, doesn’t want to begrudge Foggy his love for him. If she can’t share him—and she already knows she can’t—then at least she can leave him with this.)

Of course, Foggy doesn’t know any of this yet, doesn’t realize he’s made his choice. All he knows is that they’re meandering through Hell’s Kitchen in the chilly twilight, Foggy and Karen and Matt between them, not talking really, just taking deep comfort in the nearness of each other, in the grip of Matt’s hand on Karen’s arm and the warmth of Foggy’s hand on Matt’s should, in the impossible dream-come-true of it all.

Josie’s eyebrows lift in surprise when she sees the three of them together for the first time in over a year, but all she says is, “I’m not starting another tab for you, so don’t ask.” But they just laugh because they know that’s as close to “I missed you” as they’re going to get.

Tuesdays are quiet at Josie’s, which means their usual table is free, and so is the jukebox. Matt collects quarters from all of them and Foggy helps him choose his songs; he’s not sure he’ll ever get used to the fact that Matt can smell a gun and hear a heartbeat from across a sweaty, crowded bar, while jukebox pages beneath a pane of plexiglass stop him cold.

“You are not allowed to spend all our music money on Nirvana,” Foggy warns, and Matt laughs because Foggy knows him, knows he would if he could.

Instead they land on a weird stew of ‘90s grunge for Matt, early-aughts folk for Karen, and ‘80s new wave for Foggy, and when they get back to the table Karen’s sitting pretty with three neat whiskies with beer chasers ready for the taking.

They toast to Father Lantom’s life and they toast to Fisk’s arrest and they even toast to Josie, who is already deeply regretting their return.

They pepper Foggy with questions about Marci he can’t answer (“I don’t even have a ring yet. Don’t ask me about the date!”) and debate the merits of PI licensure versus paralegal certification for Karen (“Does reporting qualify as investigative experience, you think?”) and try to figure out the best way for Matt to tell the rest of the Defenders he’s alive (“Start with Claire,” Karen advises. “She’s the only one who can’t punch you through a wall.”)

They talk about Maggie (“What are you going to call her?” “Um, Maggie, I guess?”) and Frank Castle (“Hell of a guardian angel you picked up there, Karen.” “I don’t know where he is now, Matt, so don’t ask.”) and Brett (“He knows, Matt.” “No he doesn’t.” “You showed up at his mother’s house with blood on your shirt. He knows.”).

Foggy gets them more beer. They play pool, and the bar is empty enough that even Matt risks playing a round. A song comes on that Karen likes, and she grabs Matt’s hand and drags him out to clear piece of floor to dance until Josie yells at them (“This place look like a nightclub?” “Such a cruel question to ask a blind man, Josie.” “Don’t sass me, kid.”). Another song comes on—one that Foggy likes—and he indulges in a little off-key pool cue karaoke until Matt and Karen beg him to stop (“Still tone-deaf as ever, Nelson.” “All just part of my boyish charm, Murdock.”).

And they laugh, the three of them, and Foggy’s heart swells—he’s missed this so much, he’d keep them together here like this forever if he could. They’re already a sheet and a half to the wind, but they don’t care; they pool more of their cash and send it with Karen to the bar for more libations.

She returns with a bottle of cheap whiskey and three glasses.

“I daresay I detect an eel, Foggy. I think she means business,” Matt says wryly as Karen pours their rounds, and she grins and tosses her hair over her shoulder.

“I do,” she says lightly, pushing their glasses across the table. “Take a pew, boys.”

“Uh oh,” Matt laughs as they sit.

“You, sir, have some explaining to do.” Her voice has gone hard, and she fixes him with a decidedly not-flirtatious stare that even Matt can perceive the seriousness of.

“Karen, not tonight,” Foggy warns.

“Yes, tonight,” Karen says. “Yes, tonight, Foggy. I do not want us to wait until we start to forget what the past two months felt like. We need to have this conversation now.”

“It’s okay, Fog,” Matt says. “She’s more than earned the right. You both have.” He makes an encouraging gesture toward Karen. “Please.”

“You broke into my apartment and told me that the reason you didn’t call to let us know you were alive was because you wanted to protect us,” Karen says levelly. “And what I want to know is this: What the hell did you think you were protecting us from?”

“I told you. Fisk.”

Karen laughs bitterly. “Once Fisk knew you were alive, you think the fact that _we_ didn’t would have protected us? We were marked the minute you showed your face in Hell’s Kitchen again, whether we knew it or not. And you knew that.”

Matt winces uncomfortably and takes a sip of his whiskey to cover it. It doesn’t really work. “Legally,” he says finally, and it’s so obvious he’s groping for a way to the truth that Foggy wants to shake him. “I wanted to insulate you from what I was planning to do.”

“From killing him,” Foggy says.

Matt nods once.

“No you didn’t,” Foggy says. “You wanted to insulate yourself from us talking you out of it.”

Matt sighs and shrugs irritably. “What do you want me to say, Foggy? I was in a bad place and I didn’t want to be rescued.” He swirls his glass before taking a long drink. “I’d just lost the only person in the world who could truly understand me—”

“Bullshit,” Karen says, with a quiet ferocity that pulls both Matt and Foggy up short. “She was the only person you _allowed_ to understand you.”

“Newsflash, guys: I’m not Spider-Man. I hurt people. Bad people, yes, but I hurt them and I’m glad I hurt them because it means I stopped them. I stopped them, when the law couldn’t or wouldn’t. And I sleep just fine. And you want to know why?” He turns his face toward Karen and gives her a grim smile. “The night of the Grotto clusterfuck, I had a nice long chat with Frank Castle. He’d knocked me out and chained me to a chimney on the roof of an apartment building around the corner from the ambush. He tried to make me kill him by threatening to kill Grotto if I didn’t. Wanted to see how far I’d go.”

Karen’s face goes pale and Matt’s head twitches a little toward her.

“I can tell from the way you’re holding your breath that he didn’t tell you that part.”

“Neither did you,” she whispers.

Matt gives a tiny shrug. “I’m telling you now. We’re on the roof, and I’m trying to talk him out of it somehow, trying to convince him that every life has value, no matter how small, and he said something I’ll never forget. He said, ‘We don’t get to pick the things that fix us.’ And you know what, Karen? That’s probably the only thing he’s ever said that’s ever made sense to me. And Elektra got that, in a way that you and Foggy never will.”

“You don’t know that,” Karen protests. “We don’t have to understand it to accept it,” Foggy says at the same time.

Matt drains his glass and points it at Karen. “You’re just apologizing for Frank,” he says. “And you,” he says, turning to Foggy. He opens his mouth, then closes it and shakes his head. He’s flushed and drunk and Foggy’s not quite sure but thinks he might have seen a flash of a quiver float across his jaw. “You, I don’t deserve.”

“What does that mean?” Foggy asks.

Matt touches his mouth like he’s said too much and quickly stands, grabbing haphazardly at his coat and his cane. “It’s late,” he mumbles. “I should go.”

“Matt.” Foggy says, grabbing his arm. “Stop.”

“Let go, Fog,” Matt says with increasing urgency, trying to jerk his arm out of Foggy’s hand without hurting him. “Please just let me go.”

“No.” Foggy stands to equalize his leverage.

“Please stay, Matt,” Karen says, and because hell, she too is Spartacus, she stands up as well, and gently touches Matt’s arm.

He flinches and she closes her fingers around his sleeve, gathering the fabric tight.

“Guys, stop,” Matt says, and he’s got a wild look to him, like a trapped animal. “Let me go.”

“Sit down, Matt,” Karen says gently. “We’re not done here.”

“Please,” Foggy adds.

He can see Matt’s eyes roll helplessly behind his glasses in search of an exit that doesn’t exist, and he tries to pull away one more time before he surrenders and sits again.

“You don’t get to wall yourself off and then complain you’re alone, Matt,” Foggy says. “You’re afraid that if you let us in all the way, we won’t like what we see.”

Matt chews his lip and his brow crumples like paper. “Yes,” he whispers.

“You’re afraid it’ll scare us away.”

Matt nods.

“Listen to our heartbeats,” Karen says. “Are we afraid of you?”

He closes his eyes and tips his forward a little. “No.”

Foggy glances at Karen. She gives Foggy a tiny shrug and he nods.

“Give me your hand,” Foggy says to Matt, reaching into his jacket pocket.

“Fog—”

“Just do it,” Foggy says.

Matt sighs and complies. Foggy places the napkin he’d scrawled their names onto earlier that afternoon into Matt’s hand and covers it with his own. Matt’s face melts when he realizes what it is, but Foggy just presses it more firmly into his hand. “You deserve this, Matt,” he says.

“Foggy—” Matt protests.

“You do,” Karen says, reaching over and closing her hand around his wrist.

“There’s no statute of limitations on napkins, buddy,” Foggy says. “It means you’re stuck with us, and we’re stuck with you.”

“Equal partners,” Karen adds. “No more lies. No more unilateral decisions about what we should worry about. No more pretending you’re the only one who can fix things. And no more pretending you have to fix them alone. Got it?”

Matt shakes his head, more in wonder than objection. “You have no idea what you’re getting yourselves into,” he says.

“Do any of us, really?” Foggy asks. “What I do know is that when shit goes down, there’s no one I’d rather have by my side.”

He takes Matt’s other hand and closes it over the napkin. “Keep it somewhere safe, okay? In case you need a reminder someday.”

Matt nods wordlessly and tucks the napkin into his jacket pocket and Foggy can tell he’s fighting tears. Hell, Foggy’s fighting his own, and largely losing. He usually wishes he wasn’t such a weepy drunk, but tonight it’s okay, he decides. He’s earned the right.

“This deserves a toast,” Karen says, refilling their glasses.

“To friends,” Matt says.

“Friends without fear,” Foggy says.

“That’s terrible, Fog,” Matt says, trying and failing not to laugh.

“By which you mean it’s perfect,” Foggy argues.

“To Nelson, Murdock & Page,” Karen offers. “And whatever the future may hold.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm still on [Tumblr](https://beaarthurpendragon.tumblr.com/), for as long as that lasts, and I'm a slut for comments. :)


End file.
